Artemis Fowl and the Hunger Games

Chapter UPD8

Jesus. This account had been dead for three years now. Wow. I've been going through and seeing all the comments and you guys are really giving me some confidence here. It's amazing to see all the support and love for these stories flourish. Even after... god. What has it been. Close to 6 years? It's been a long, long time and it's only getting longer.

Oh to hell with it. What the hell. Maybe we can start another chapter of AFHG. For old times sake. I'll see what we can do. Chapter 8. Maybe someone will read it, who knows.

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The day had been long and hard and only now was Artemis stepping off the elevator into district 3's plush apartment/prison. He couldn't think of anything, his mind was blank. The only thing he saw when he closed his eyes for even a moment was the eyes of the elf, cold, dead unfeeling. They had left him on the floor, as an example to the rest of the tributes, and he felt its unyielding stare tear into his back from across the room.

Butler had been trying to teach him how to use a bow, but it had been going poorly. He was a fast learner when it came to equations and inventions, but the fast-paced combat made his stomach wiggle and his skin turn to ice. When he did manage to strike the practice dummy, the straw that came pouring out made his stomach churn, and he couldn't help but glance back at the elf on the other side of the room, blood strewn across the floor. A living being. He was going to have to do this to a living being.

Fortunately, the rest of the session went decently. Butler taught him several camouflage techniques, and some practical things as well, such as how to sleep in a tree, how to set up a lean-to, and how to start a smokeless fire. Artemis took in the information easily, grateful for the distraction. But when it was all said and done, when he had ridden up to the third apartment and ended up collapsing on his own bed, the tears started to come and they wouldn't stop.

They weren't necessarily sad tears, he tried to tell himself. Its a simple biological reaction to overstimulation.

And yet he couldn't shake the incredible feeling of vulnerability that had overcome him. The overwhelming sense of fear. All-encompassing, and utterly present. The fear gripped him. Sure, the lean-tos were all well and good, and the igloos were interesting, but the thought of stabbing into solid flesh with a spear or embedding an arrow into a skull made his mind go numb.

Slowly, the tears stopped, but the numbness remained. He stood and walked around the apartment, crossing paths with an annoyed, tired Minerva, almost tripping over Root, and opening the fridge in the kitchen just to close it again before wandering back to his room and hopping into the shower. It was only after a few moments that he realized he hadn't even taken his clothes off. Embarrassed, he turned off the water, changed, and toweled himself down as best as he could.

An Avox opened the door to his room then, and looked at him. She pointed to the watch on her wrist and closed the door. Dinner. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was absolutely famished.

Artemis was hoping dinner would be simple and quick but it was almost the exact opposite. Capitol people liked their flare for the quirky, and each diner was served their own Cornish game hen with fig stuffing, black pudding, eggs, pate, and an amalgamation of things so lavish and with aromas so delicate he couldn't identify them.

"So," Butler began as they settled in and started to eat. "We're coming up on the rankings. Soon, you will both have to be ranked."

"Ranked?" Artemis asked, clawing at a fig with his fork. "On what?"

"Whatever the judges see fit. Combat skills. Technical skills. You have to wow them. This isn't a pity party. The rank goes up to 12, and the higher it is, the more sponsors you get. It doesn't matter that you're from district 3, if you don't get a good rank, if you don't wow them with whatever skill you can, you might as well be already dead. Sponsors are what keep you alive, boy."

Artemis looked down at his plate. His appetite was steadily leaving him.

"Then, after ranking, there will be your interviews. If you don't have a good rank, you'll have to rake them in with your charm and wit. Layer it on thick, too. Minerva," Butler said, turning to look at her, munching at her black pudding. "Don't be afraid to cry. Make a sob story, something sentimental. Your best friend died in the last games. Your sister has a terminal illness. Your family is relying on your winnings to survive. Whatever it is, make it believable, make them root for you. Artemis."

Artemis looked up from his fig. "Yes?"

"You volunteered for your brother. If you can, let yourself cry about it. Not too far. A few tears will do. A heartfelt story about how you felt in that moment. Try to ask to say hello to your brother through the cameras. The capitol people eat that up, it makes you look simple and adorable."

"You think I'm simple?" He asked, offended.

"Not at all. But let's face it. You're not going to last very long in that arena without some proper fighting skills. We have three days to prepare, and no one ever became a master in three days. Your fencing might come in handy, but no one is going to play by any rules out there. And you aren't going to become a diamond under pressure. You're going to crumble against the pressure of this world. Unless you can whip something up, something unheard of, something brilliant, you're going to die out there."

His words were blunt, and Artemis knew he meant it. In fact, Artemis believed it himself. No amount of knot-tying or fire making or electrical engineering was going to save him now.

Wait.

Electrical engineering.

He knew the arenas held secret cameras, projectors, even bombs that you could step off of. Batteries were abundant if you could only grab a handful in the cornucopia, and if not, as long as he got a hold of a few potatoes and some copper...  Maybe even cajoling Cabelline into sewing extra wiring into his suit could work.

His mind was alight with new possibilities. Bombs. Crossbows. Cannons. Butler was wrong. He wasn't going to crumble against the pressure of the world. He was going to make the world crumble against him.